Savage Saints MC Series (Complete Box Set)

by Hazel Parker

  It was quite a small office—there were holding cells behind a hallway, so it wasn’t so tiny that the lobby and the cells were in the same place, but it was definitely not the sprawling precinct that the LAPD might have had. There wasn’t even a secretary; just an open door on the wall beyond.

  “One second,” a man’s voice said. “Hi, sorry, Sheriff Anthony Wiggins. How can I help you, young lady?”

  “Hi, Sheriff. I’m Megan Walker; thanks for taking the time to see me. Not here for a crime or anything like that, just to make that clear. I’m helping a company expand and was wondering if you might be able to help answer some questions?”

  “Why, of course!” the sheriff said with a laugh. “I can’t say I’ve ever had a visitor like this, but I suppose it beats having to pull over some teenager for speeding and getting a lecture from his parents. What can I answer for you, Miss Walker?”

  I will never get used to that. Ever.

  “So part of what we’re trying to do is introduce a brand to Green Hills,” I said. “Whiskey, specifically.”

  “Mmm,” Sheriff Wiggins said, rubbing his stomach in playful delight.

  “And I’m wondering who your town’s most influential people are.”

  “Ahh,” the sheriff said, but I did notice that there seemed to be some sort of… hesitation, maybe? Not nerves, but not excitement, either. “Well, that depends on if you’re asking the question officially or unofficially?”

  I smiled politely. I had a feeling, though, that this was going exactly in the direction I least wanted it to.

  “Whatever can help my client grow its business,” I said. “Obviously, I would like to avoid someone with a bad name. I’m not looking to generate controversy for my client.”

  “Understood,” the sheriff said. “However, let’s say what this town is. The person everyone knows? The one everyone looks up to? He’s dead.”

  Well, that was not the response I was expecting.

  “However, Paul Peters’ club is very much alive and very much thriving. The Savage Saints.”

  Unfortunately, that may have been the response I was expecting—not that I’m particularly happy about it.

  “I was under the impression that the Saints are a gang, Sheriff. Wouldn’t that—”

  “Oh, no, no, no, no,” he said repeatedly. “That’s one thing they most certainly are not, Miss Walker. And they will defend that to their grave.”

  I let a pause hang in the air as I tried my best to find the balance between expressing my doubt and confusion at this without coming across as haughty or above it. Unfortunately, such a balancing act wasn’t exactly a strength of mine.

  “Well, don’t you feel we’re all just being a bit pedantic here?” I said.

  “Not in the slightest. Look, I don’t want to get into an entire discussion on the Saints’ history, but I can promise you that if you want to make an impact in this town, this is the group to do it with. You can find their clubhouse right by their shop, Peter’s Auto Repair. Knock and ask to speak to Trace.”

  What if Trace is that big man that walked in on the town hall meeting? Boy, that would be a fun second meeting.

  “Got it,” I said, realizing I wasn’t going to get anything else. “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  “My pleasure, madam, you have a good one.”

  For someone so friendly, he seems so protective and defensive of the Saints. I know it’s possible to seem corrupt, but…

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe the Saints aren’t quite a gang.

  But perception is reality, right? And if the perception is that they are a gang, well, call them what they are.

  I headed out the door and got back in the car, requesting my driver to take me to Peter’s Auto Repair. I didn’t get nervous very often, but I did feel like I needed to be a little more on-guard than usual.

  As we made our way there, I took in Green Hills, easily seeing how it got its name. It was a quaint little town, the kind where the two gas stations were both local and there weren’t many chains beyond one McDonald’s and one Subway. Everything else was locally owned, and likely within the hands of a few families here.

  It was slightly bigger than I had thought, and I could see signs of it becoming more and more of a youth-oriented place. There were two co-working spaces, a sure sign of a place trying to appeal to youth, and multiple signs for guest speakers about the power of tech. It was a place seeking to modernize, but within the context of it being a family-friendly town.

  Hopefully, the Saints were trying to do the same.

  But if I knew anything about… ahem, clubs, it’s that they were slow as fuck in getting ready to do that.

  We pulled up to the shop and immediately, a very young but very tattooed man came up.

  “What’s going on with the vehicle?”

  No “hi,” no “how are you,” just right to the point, huh?

  I guess this is what you get.

  “I’m looking for a man by the name of Trace. I need to talk to him about some business.”

  The young man’s face paled, almost as if he were nervous. He asked me to wait one moment. I got out of the car and leaned against the trunk as I waited for this Trace to walk out of the side building that the young boy had walked out of.

  And then, lo and behold, my worst fears came true.

  Trace was, indeed, the man who looked like Hulk Hogan without the mustache.

  “Not here right now,” the man said. “BK. How can I…”

  So he’s not Trace? He’s BK?

  And now he recognizes me.

  Ah, shit.

  “You’re the guy that came to my meeting in North Hollywood at the town hall,” I said.

  It wasn’t exactly a moment of happy recognition for either of us. The massive man before me just stared me down, not saying a word.

  “BK?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why were you at that meeting?”

  BK shrugged.

  “Handle club image.”

  It was probably incredibly rude and slightly arrogant, but I couldn’t help but laugh at that. If the club wanted to present itself as anything other than a gang, why did it choose the most intimidating man possible? Why did it choose the man who looked more interested in breaking things than forming relationships? What in the hell was this club thinking?

  And they were trying to repair their image?

  “Well, with all due respect, BK, you did a terrible job.”

  BK just snorted at me. Yeah, it was a bit rude, but so was his behavior at the town hall. Except it wasn’t unjustified or illegal, what he did.

  “If you’re so good, work for us.”

  I reeled at that with a smirk, but the smile faded when I realized he was serious.

  “I’m here to discuss a deal with Trace, not to get new clients,” I said. “If you—”

  “Sure?”

  There was an earnestness—I would almost say desperation—to what BK had said that left me a little surprised. Did they really need someone? Were they that concerned about their standing?

  A gang wouldn’t ask these questions. A gang would just start shooting and ask questions later. Maybe… maybe they aren’t as dangerous as Jose made them out to be.

  Except they said they did something to his brothers. In which case, fuck ‘em.

  “I don’t work with criminals, BK.”

  I had never seen a man’s face harden so hard in my life as what I saw from BK’s right then. He had on sunglasses—just as he had when he came to the town hall meeting—so it was impossible to read his eyes, but everything about his face otherwise told me I had just said something grave and serious.

  “No idea what’s real and what ain’t, huh?” he said.

  There was no mocking in his voice. He was very serious. I shouldn’t be here.

  “If you see Trace,” I said, working my way back to the car, “please tell him to call Megan at MWM Solutions. We’ll make a deal.”

  BK didn’t respond to that. I ha
d the driver pull out of the shop in record time before making haste for the highway. I looked over my shoulder frequently to make sure some bikes didn’t tail us. It wasn’t until we had gotten one exit away and there was no one behind us that I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Let’s just start in fucking Santa Monica.

  Chapter 3: BK

  I was so goddamn pissed.

  “Criminals?” Seriously? Maybe if this Megan chick had done any research on us, then she would have realized that the last guy accused of crimes, Splitter, was off the hook now. Obviously, there were reasons behind that, but had she not done any research on us?

  And now she wanted to make a deal with the club? What sort of highfalutin bullshit was that? Did she think we’d just bend over and kiss the ass of whoever she wanted to so we could make some money?

  Unfortunately… depending on the club status, we might have to at some point. Money’s good now, but if things don’t loosen up here…

  It was a fucked up situation, and it wasn’t good that this had happened right after our hall meeting when I had promised to get things done. I had made the line about her working for us as a throwaway, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized there might be something to it.

  Granted, it felt akin to making a deal with the devil, or at least my own personal devil. She disliked me because of what I had done at the town hall, and this little meeting we had just had did nothing to help matters. But if she could help the club, if she could do things that would help matters, well, maybe that was what the club needed.

  But if we weren’t careful, things were going to go to hell. She clearly was good at what she did, she wasn’t afraid to stand up to us, and she had connections to organizations and groups that could ruin us and make life hell. She was probably still associated with the government, and while we had a legal bulwark of sorts—not to mention Amber—on our side, we didn’t need to open yet another front of pressure on us.

  The Devil’s Mercenaries couldn’t kill us. But bad press and someone driven to give us more—an expert at that—might.

  A few seconds later, Trace peeked his head out of the clubhouse. I had deliberately lied to prevent him from having to go out—the club president never made first contact with strangers. It was my job to make sure that whoever he interacted with was vetted and approved. Even if she was just a woman, a small and youthful looking one at that.

  “You all good, BK?” he said.

  I turned, sighed, and didn’t do anything else. I think my reaction said it all, and Trace’s expression told me that he was fully aware of how I felt.

  “Sorry, man,” he said. “Whatever that was.”

  “No worries,” I said.

  It’s either a blown opportunity to make us better or our worst nightmare. But you don’t need to know that right now, boss.

  “I’m going to go see Jane at the hospital,” Trace said. “Apparently, she’s having a rough day at work, so I’m going to surprise her. Make sure this place doesn’t burn while I’m gone?”

  I nodded as Trace laughed at his own joke. Trace walked by me, hopped on his bike, revved it loudly, and then sped out. See, that’s what we need. For all of us to feel like we can ride our bike freely and have people look at us in awe and admiration, not fear and loathing.

  Maybe I’m just the wrong person. Maybe Megan was right. Maybe I am terrible at my job. Heaven knows I’d be great if I were trying to intimidate, but not if I’d be trying to make friends.

  As soon as he disappeared from view, I went inside and sat on the couch. I was alone, but that was about the last thing I needed right now. The more I was alone, the more likely I was to snap into a flashback. The more… the more…

  The door opened and I assumed Trace had returned. I did not, however, expect to see Splitter’s girlfriend.

  “Amber!”

  The young, attractive lawyer looked up at me in shock, as if she had never heard me express so much emotion in my life. I certainly hadn’t in recent times—the shout was as much a way for me to avoid falling into the trap of a flashback as it was seeing her.

  “BK?” she said sweetly. “Everything all good?”

  “Yeah, just… surprised.”

  Amber smiled and started to walk down the hall, presumably to meet up with Splitter.

  Then an idea clicked.

  “Amber?”

  She turned back to me, a sweet smile but also concern on her face.

  “Yes?”

  “Question,” I said.

  If there was anyone in the club who knew what it was like to deal with a barrage of attention and the press, it was the woman whose divorce had been covered ad nauseam by the paparazzi.

  “You had cameras everywhere,” I said. “How did you get good press?”

  Amber cocked her head a bit as if she had trouble understanding why I would ask her the question.

  “I, uhh, I’m not sure I’m the right person to answer that, BK,” she said. “Most of the press I get is unwanted press. I’m not trying to control the narrative. I’m just trying to have a sense of privacy when I go home. It’s, unfortunately, a rare thing, so I try and take it as much as I can.”

  “But…”

  I suddenly felt like I was standing before my military tribunal appearance, stunned and at a loss for words. This whole case was turning me into someone I didn’t recognize; sure, I wasn’t much of a speaker to begin with, but now I suddenly couldn’t even get the few words I said right?

  This was very, very different.

  Amber, to her credit, seemed to pick up on this and had some sympathy for me, smiling gently and coming closer to me.

  “I can give you the best advice I can, though,” she said. “From what I saw of my clients and what worked and what didn’t. Just put on a good face. Be honest. Cooperate. Everything is about relationships—do you have good relationships with the people who are covering you?”

  I don’t think we even know the names of the reporters who are creating these stories, I thought with a huff. I didn’t answer her question, but that was mostly because I figured my visible frustration with the situation was more than enough to indicate how I felt.

  “OK, so, maybe you need to reach out to them,” Amber said. “Lord knows that whenever someone is attacking me, I often find that understanding and empathy help.”

  I agreed with that. I just didn’t know how empathizing and reaching out to an entire city’s worth of people were going to help our image.

  “And it usually starts with both the locals who keep their head down and work and raise their families and the high-profilers.”

  A relationship with the high-profilers…

  “Don’t yell, reach out,” I said, repeating it as if a mantra.

  “Exactly,” Amber said. “You’ll get it. But hey, I’m going to go find Splitter, OK? I’ll be happy to talk with you more on this if you want.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  I would have left it at that, feeling that I had said everything I needed to, before realizing that I was missing something.

  “Thank you, Amber.”

  Amber was halfway to the hallway when she looked at me with surprise—happy surprise, at least.

  “You’re welcome, BK.”

  Thank you for your advice.

  But more importantly, for telling me what I need to do with Megan and with the club.

  * * *

  “You want to hire her?”

  It was just Trace and I in the hall, going over what I thought was my best idea so far. I was a little worn down from having to look like an idiot in front of the club for most of our meetings, and besides, we didn’t have a hall meeting for another three days. I wanted to get this idea out, and so I had pulled Trace in for a one-on-one as soon as he got back from his meeting with Jane.

  “Crazy, I know,” I said. I took a deep breath as I put a focus on saying more. “But, club image? It’s bad. Her skills? She’s good. Works with the city, wanted a business deal with us. She’s
strong. So… we hire her. Make our club image better.”

  “Shit,” Trace said, pulling out a cigarette to let off some steam, both literally and figuratively. “I mean, Amber gave us a break so club funds aren’t as tight as I feared they would be, but you want to hire a PR expert? I mean, fuck.”

  “I know,” I said. “But I failed.”

  That was perhaps too blunt an assessment since it implied my failure was set in stone. But up to this point, what had I done in the two months since our attack? I hadn’t gotten us any good press, numerous bikers reported people yelling at them in the street, and our shop business had largely dried up. We had repeat business from people who knew us or didn’t pay attention to the news, but I didn’t see very many new faces coming through.

  “You just haven’t figured out what you need to do yet,” Trace said.

  I didn’t respond to that. Trace took another puff as he left the space between him inhaling on the cigarette and puff out give him his next words.

  “But it might be good to get someone objective, someone who has a public eye’s view. Still… Splitter needed Amber because his life depended on it. I needed Jane because my life depended on it.”

  A long pause came as Trace looked like he was struggling mightily with his next words—like he had something he wanted to say but was sort of afraid to say it.

  “Would you say, BK,” he started, speaking slowly as he chose each word with extreme care. “That the life of the club depends on us improving our image?”

  If I had gotten asked that question just a few weeks ago, I would have immediately said no. I’d been in war, both in Iraq and here with the DM’s, and I’d seen Trace nearly die and Splitter need something short of a miracle. The death of a club from some people talking shit about it seemed laughably impossible.

  But… as time had gone by, and especially after what Sheriff Wiggins had said about not being able to protect the club…

  “Probably.”

  I still couldn’t bring myself to say yes. It felt insulting to the memory of what I had gone through in Iraq and the souls of my fallen brothers. It felt like hyperbole of the worst kind.

  But Trace was no idiot. He picked up on what I meant.